


raison d'être

by velavelavela



Category: Twisted-Wonderland (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Crying, French Kissing, M/M, Making Out, Masturbation, Worship, but also french PEOPLE!, but like in a good way yknow, forgot to add those bc theyre so given BUT there u go., happy BDAY ROOOOOOK!!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:40:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27830152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/velavelavela/pseuds/velavelavela
Summary: Rook could write a million sonnets right now, in this moment, but he forgets every word when Vil says, “undress.”for rook's birthday 2020 :~)
Relationships: Rook Hunt/Vil Schoenheit
Comments: 5
Kudos: 76





	raison d'être

Rook loves to see beautiful things. The sublime build up of losing composure, purring blood and flushing cheeks, galloping breaths, hot sticky drool-- the moments of orgasm, so beautifully sketched out by the hand of God, agape mouth, shivering thighs-- _la petit morte_ \-- Vil’s _petit morte_ \-- Rook’s hands coaxing the come out with his palm, delicately perched around Vil’s dick.

Rook loves to taste beautiful things. He loves to kiss and kiss and kiss Vil’s neck, jutting collarbones, his shoulders, chest-- lick and suck the noises out of Vil when his primadonna decides to put on a real performance. When Vil’s hips move in lazy, seductive circles and his length taps the back of Rook’s throat.

Rook loves to say beautiful things as Vil touches himself, kneel behind him on the bed, flush to his back. Wrap his arms around Vil’s torso, play his fingers on his chest like the keys on a piano, knead and rub. Vil gasps as Rook notches his chin in the hollow of Vil’s almond white shoulder, tilts his head so that his hair brushes a straight line against Vil’s fluid arm. “ _Mon roi_ ,” Rook would say, “you are so beautiful--” And when Vil moans, purposefully extravagantly, adjusting so that he can press his cheek to Rook’s head, trembling, Rook continues, “ _mon roi des poison_ \--” until Vil melts into Rook’s grasp, and there is somehow still too much space between them. Rook clutches his lover as close as possible as Vil’s quick breaths break and turn deep as a wound, bleeding into the air, serenely, slowly.

Vil is, as sometimes he is prone to be after climax, quiet. His chest heaves, and he has dropped his hand so that his wrist glances off his knee like a sunbeam. Rook hums happily, squeezing Vil’s middle. His skin is nearly feverish to the touch.

And then he wriggles out of Rook’s grip. Rook unfurls his legs, moving them out from under himself and then straight as maypoles out in front. Vil pivots, his plumpurple eyes focusing in the woozy aftershocks of orgasm on Rook’s fully clothed form in front of him. Vil is lean and taut, he is twirling his hand at the wrist, cracking the air out of the joint. He is beautiful in his entirety, from his posture that does not yield to relaxation, his deerbone jawline, the makeup he leaves on perking his eyes up at the corners, shaping hollows below his cheekbones that Rook wants to fill with love. He wants to fill every aspect of Vil with love. Do nothing but _love_.

Rook could write a million sonnets right now, in this moment, but he forgets every word when Vil says, “undress.”

“ _Oui, monsieur_ ,” Rook grins from temple to temple, wide and frightening and almost otherworldly. Sometimes he makes Vil pause. But he’s scooted forward and heeling his boots off with twin thumps on the floor, untying the tassel around his waist and coiling the silken rope, setting it on the bed beside him. It’s slow, he’s teasing. Vil’s eyes narrow, and he feels the warmth in his stomach returning, sidling in like a cat. Rook undoes the onyx sash, slides his arms out of the grottoed sleeves. His smile remains, but it has shrunk; his eyes are on Vil’s, his hands folding the clothes he is shedding like an extravagant second skin.

And he stands then, slinking forward to stand just a foot away from Vil, to tilt up his chin and look at Vil as he finishes undressing, hooking his thumbs into his pants and underwear, stooping to step out of them. He tosses his clothes back behind him, now careless in lust, onto the bed, takes off his hat and ticks it onto the knob of the chair by the bed as he takes off his shirt. Rook’s face is shielded for a brief moment, and Vil looks at his stomach muscles, his thighs, his dick already erect, the tip pink and soft as a peony.

Once Rook has thrown his shirt back onto the bed and replaced his hat with a flourish, Vil finally acts.

“You’re going to fold those later,” he says, nodding to the bed and taking Rook’s chin in an elegant grip as if he were holding the base of an apple, or the round of a wine glass. Rook is smiling again, but he’s gradually flushing, gradually losing composure. And Vil hasn’t even touched him yet. Vil traces his thumb along Rook’s jaw in a heart shape, his nail tickling the skin of the round of his cheek. Rook leans into it with a soft sigh, shifting his thighs ever so slightly. 

Vil suddenly taps the fingers of his free hand lightly along Rook’s length, the corners of his lips twitching at Rook’s soft, sudden gasp, the way he flinches forward. He doesn’t break from Vil’s grip on his face, keeping his eyes in contact with Vil’s. Rook’s eyes are like a blooming olive tree, a lake in the sun, deceivingly serene, the pupils always _just_ too large for comfort.

Vil hums but does not speak, stroking along Rook’s length with the lightest of touches, as if Rook is something delicate like a hand mirror, a pale, blue robin’s egg. Rook’s breathing becomes yearning and hot, but Vil continues playing with him, pulling him forward by the jaw and pressing their lips together. Vil closes his eyes as he probes his tongue against the bone wall of Rook’s teeth. Rook opens his mouth to allow Vil in, and Vil circles his thumb around the tip of Rook’s dick. He moans into Vil’s parted mouth.

It continues like this for a bit-- Vil teasing, touching lightly, _playing_. Sometimes sex is like a game, and Vil always wins. He never grows tired of Rook’s sounds, muffled by his own lips and tongue. He could continue this forever, but he doesn’t want to, because his length is growing sensitive to even the air. He presses his pelvis against Rook’s, skin directly on skin, dick flush to dick.

When Rook and Vil touch, Vil’s lamb soft skin with jutting hip bones against the base of Rook’s abdomen, Vil finally lets go of Rook’s chin and speaks,

“Prepare me.”

Rook nods curtly, stepping backwards towards the bedside table as Vil sits on the edge of the bed, his legs falling open like a flower’s petals. Rook finds the lube and coats his fingers, sets the bottle to Vil’s side. It tips on the comforter so that it just touches his ribs, and Vil bats it away with a half-scowl. Rook enters Vil with his fingers, and Vil sighs and the sigh is like the last bits of thunder in a storm above the sea, something so, so beautiful, just in that little gesture, that act of his--

He works his gloved fingers around, stroking against Vil’s sweet spot, and Vil is balling his hands in the comforter. 

“I’m on top,” Vil finally says, when he feels like he’s open enough.

“ _Oui_ , my _raison d'être_ , of course,” Rook responds immediately, propping the pillows beneath his upper back, leaning. Vil takes Rook in his hand and lowers down gracefully, and Rook gasps as Vil continues slowly downward until Rook is completely inside his _roi des poison_ , and Vil’s knees are shaking, and that is before he begins to move. 

As he sees Vil start to come undone, to rock into Rook’s penetrative dick, Rook cannot help but begin to cry. Vil’s pale baby hairs are slick to his forehead; his eyes are heavy-lidded and lustful; his arms, braced on either side of Rook’s head against the head of the bed trembling; his thighs trembling--

Vil’s act of unraveling, his show that he puts on, the deep moans and eye rolls, is genuine with Rook. It may not have been genuine with others, it may not be genuine with future partners, but with Rook-- it’s always been the real him. He feels the climax building up and grabs a handful of Rook’s hair, his hat falling off to the side, and pulls hard. Rook’s mascara is running down his face, the clumps and streaks of black making winding paths towards his mouth, still sloppy with a slurry of Vil’s spit and his own.

“Vil--” Rook cries out as he comes inside Vil, and Vil is shortly after, yanking Rook’s head back to lean and bite at his neck with enough force to begin to bruise automatically.

When they’re both done, Vil gingerly rises, lets go of Rook’s hair and neck, and kisses Rook once more, softly, before waddling to the bathroom to clean up.


End file.
